Accidents of Providence (18 page)

Again the bailiff ordered silence.

“The prosecution calls Mary du Gard for its first witness,” the clerk repeated.

Rachel’s employer approached the jury, wearing a dress the color of turnips. “I am a widow. My husband was Johannes du Gard.” She began delivering her testimony in fits and starts; she kept stealing glances at Rachel. “When my husband died I took on his glove business. Rachel Lockyer was apprenticed to me in the trade and served as my assistant. She was a good helper. She earned her keep.”

“Go on,” Griffin prompted.

“She grew unwell after the death of her brother in April. She would take to her bed early.”

“Was she with child?”

“I thought so. I could not be sure. I tried to find the signs but I could not see for certain. She kept to herself and was secretive.”

Oh, hurry it up, Widow du Gard, Bartwain thought. I have heard your testimony before, and it is just as plodding now as last time.

“She would dress with great haste and in the dark. She wore her skirts high on the waist and would not let the matrons inspect her, although Mrs. Chidley tested her breasts for hardness. But she said her mother had the same breasts and they were thick by nature. Then she said her swollen belly was the result of a digestive ailment. Later I asked if a man had taken her in sin. She replied that she had not been taken
in sin.
”

“Did you believe her?”

“No.”

“What happened the night of November first?”

“She took to her quarters after she finished her work. It was late. She had disappeared a good part of the day, so we were running behind schedule. I stayed downstairs and continued working.”

“When did you go upstairs?”

“Around half past ten. I went right to sleep and was awakened later by the wind. Then I heard a cry. I thought it might be her dog. But it was not a dog that I heard. I rose and called to her outside her door and the sound stopped. She would not let me in. I tried to look through the keyhole but it was covered. She never answered my call. I returned to my bed for the remainder of the night. If she wanted my help, she should have asked for it,” Mary concluded, directing a helpless glance in the direction of the defendant.

“Did you see inside her sleeping quarters?”

“Not until the next morning. I went inside and saw stains on the floor and in the bed, and the bedclothes all rumpled. I said, Rachel, what have you done? She said it was her monthly time. I did not think so much blood could come from that. She was very pale. She worked in the shop but she did not complete any of her tasks. She went back to her bed at the end of the day and did not take any supper.”

“Did she say anything about giving birth?”

“No.”

“What happened that night, the night of November second?”

“I woke again to sounds from her chamber. I looked through the keyhole and this time she must have forgotten to cover it. She was taking something out of her wainscot box. I hid in my room when she opened her door. She crept down the stairs. When she left the house I followed her.” Mary’s slender upper body pressed forward, as if fighting an invisible current. “She walked to the Smithfield market. She did not look behind her. She walked past the old slaughterhouse at the northern end of the market and headed into the woods. I waited near the slaughterhouse. She returned crying and running in the other direction. I went home then. I did not try to follow her.”

A juryman: “Why didn’t you go into the woods?”

“Because those trees are haunted at night.”

Poor Mary du Gard, thought Bartwain. She lives between a dead husband and a haunted forest.

“What then?”

“I heard a sound at the front door later that night. I went downstairs and found her lying on the stoop. She was in a dead faint and did not say a word. I helped her up the stairs and I tried to speak with her but she was in a fit and she fainted again. I went back to my bed. In the morning I returned to the Smithfield market. I went behind the slaughterhouse into the wood. I saw a mound of earth, freshly dug. I scratched at the dirt and saw something and began to pull. I pulled some more.” Mary’s voice grew hoarse. “And there I saw as mangled and pathetic a little infant as ever there was. It was in piteous condition. Oh, it was so small. It was dressed in yellow brocade and partly wrapped. There were sores and marks on it.”

Across the courtroom, Rachel was standing motionless, two spots of red coloring her cheeks.

“Were there signs of violence to it?”

“I think so. I am not sure. I wrapped it in my shawl and walked as fast as I could to Warwick Lane. Rachel was in the back room of the shop, cutting and stitching. Two customers were there also. I pushed them aside and I said to her, ‘Is this yours? Is this what you have gone and done?’ She seized it from my arms. She moaned and grabbed it to her breast and wept bitterly. The buyers left without making a purchase.”

“Who called for the coroner?”

“I called for Mrs. Chidley and Reverend Kiffin. They called for the coroner.”

“Why did you call Katherine Chidley and William Kiffin?”

Mary did not hesitate. “Because my husband would have wanted me to.”

The prosecution called Mr. Jack Dawber.

“I oversee the slaughterhouse at the Smithfield market,” Jack said. “On the night that Frenchwoman was talking about”—he pointed to Mary as she stepped off the stand—“I’m asleep on my cot in the back, to keep away thieves. The middle of the night, I wake to a sound. I walk to the back of the pens and look. There is a crescent moon shining on the elms, lighting them up. A woman is walking into them. I cannot see her face. I watch her kneel down and begin digging. I start to go outside but then I decide not.”

“What date was this?”

“All Souls’ Day.”

“You mean All Saints’ Day.”

“No, sir, I do not. I mean All Souls’. All Saints’ had already passed.”

“Why didn’t you confront this woman when she intruded onto your property?”

“I did not trust the moon. I have seen a number of moons and I know which ones are not trustworthy.”

“Go on.”

“So she buries her bundle and leaves and I return to my sleep. Then that Frenchwoman comes to the slaughterhouse first thing the next morning, crashing around so loud she wakes me.” He looked balefully at Mary. “I see her pull a dead babe out from the ground. I fall to my knees right there and pray for its soul. Then I pray for the mother.”

Griffin asked if he had seen or found anything else.

“I found this. Not far from where she buried it.” He pulled out of his pocket a long ribbon inked with inch marks.

Bartwain leaned forward in his chair. What in the name of God was that?

“Is this the same ribbon Rachel Lockyer used to measure hands for a fitting?” Griffin asked, turning to Mary in the row of witnesses.

“Yes,” Mary sorrowfully called out. “And for hanging gloves to dry.”

The measuring ribbon, Bartwain thought, that’s what she must have used around the poor child’s neck. It was a damning bit of evidence, and the only item he hadn’t located. He should have questioned the slaughterhouse overseer more thoroughly. Why were his witnesses so inconsistent? Every time they spoke it was as if they were inventing their tales anew. Maybe it was his fault. You are getting lax, Thomas, he chastised himself. You are no longer a competent interviewer. They are right to want to retire you.

Suddenly he felt tired, more tired than he had in years. He knew how this was going to end. “Take me home,” he said to White. But his secretary pretended not to hear him.

“Is there anything else?” Griffin said with satisfaction.

Stupid sot, Bartwain thought. And to think this is the kind of man who will wind up with a Parliament seat.

“No, sir,” Jack Dawber replied. “That was enough for me.”

The next witness was the butcher’s wife, Mrs. Dalton, a tireless gossip.

“Our shop is four houses down from Du Gard Gloves,” she said enthusiastically. “I found Rachel Lockyer on my stoop that night. I did not recognize who she was. My husband figured it out. He said it was the glovemaker’s apprentice on our stoop. She wore a dress strung with filth and smelling of bitterroot.” Mrs. Dalton paused to direct an accusing stare at the defendant, as if the real crime being tried was a failure of hygiene. “I gave her salts and she revived. We asked her what happened. She did not speak. She had a shifty look.”

“What was her comportment?”

“Confused.”

“Is that all?”

“That, and she asked for water and lye soap. We brought it and I gave her a basin. She washed her hands and neck and cheeks until they were red and raw. My husband suspected she was an inebriate. We nearly fetched a clergyman. We did not know she had been to bury her babe or we would have called for the justice of the peace.”

Judge Blakemore asked: “Why didn’t you fetch a clergyman?”

“Because my husband remembered she was a Leveler, and so an atheist.”

From the middle of the courthouse John Lilburne called out, “Not true!”

“Please proceed,” Griffin said.

“Nothing else happened. We took her back to her lodgings. I had no idea we were providing aid and comfort to a murderess!” Mrs. Dalton trembled with evident pleasure.

Next the prosecutor called Katherine Chidley. Bartwain shifted in his cushionless chair. No one was providing any new information. No one was explaining
why
any of this had happened, why Rachel might have tied that measuring ribbon around the newborn’s neck. Of course, such questions were off-limits. But Bartwain’s resolve not to ask them was weakening every time Griffin turned to pontificate before the spectators, his velvet cape swirling behind him.

Chidley launched into her testimony with the ease of a seasoned informant. “I have given birth many times and have assisted at many births. When Widow du Gard called for me, I went and saw the infant. We had to pry it from Rachel Lockyer’s arms. I called for the coroner to order an examination.”

“Did you ask if the child was hers?”

“It was self-evident. I did not need to ask.”

“Did you know she had been expecting a child?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I inspected her physical person in the final days of her pregnancy. I checked her breasts and they were hard and distended. She never admitted anything. She is a disorderly woman. She twists the meanings of words. When she swelled up she said it was a digestive ailment.”

“Did you examine her physical person after the infant was found?”

“Yes. I pressed her breasts and the milk came. I looked under her dress and her undergarments were stained. I went upstairs and found her bedclothes bloody and wrinkled. I opened the wainscot box and it had a strange odor. I believe she hid the babe in there, and then before it could rot she took it to the woods to bury it.”

“Was there anything else in the box?”

“Some velvet baby caps. Also some slippers sized for an infant.”

Griffin paraded these items before the jury. He also showed them the yellow brocade dress, passing it around so they could touch it.

A juryman on the left, wearing an eye patch, spoke. “The sewing of garments strikes me as an indication that the woman did not intend harm to her child and was planning to care for it.”

Chidley sniffed. “These were flimsy and made all in a rush, like she was not going to use them. They were not well sewn.”

Good Christ,
Bartwain thought. Are we now going to convict a woman based on the fact that she cannot turn a decent stitch? “Take me home,” he said again to his secretary. White continued to ignore him—he would not take his eyes off Rachel.

“Still, velvet seems dear to use as a ruse,” the juror persisted.

“All the more reason for her to rely on it,” Chidley said.

The bailiff called Dr. Jacob Featherman, the coroner, who approached the bar wearing a black doublet and a ruff with pleats. Bartwain always hated this part of a bastard-murder trial—it was one reason why he generally avoided attending. He could not bear to hear about the state of the corpse.

“I was called by my superiors to examine a dead newborn,” Featherman said. “The coroner’s office had come into possession of an infant. I was asked to inspect it.”

“What did you find?”

“At the time I conducted my examination, the body was in an early state of putrefaction. It was black around the mouth and there were settlings of blood in the limbs. The orifices were infested with small worms. The trunk showed insect marks and bites. The neck had a ring around it, which I took to be chafing from a string or ribbon—like the one that man there showed earlier.” He pointed at the slaughterhouse overseer. “When I opened the body I found the blood vessels healthy and the lungs to have some air. The lungs were partially inflated.”

Bartwain studied Rachel, who stood motionless under the defendant’s mirror. She isn’t saying anything, he thought. She needs to speak up. The defendant is supposed to interrupt and challenge the prosecution. She should have taken a few lessons from John Lilburne about how to win over a courtroom.

“What do these findings indicate?” Griffin asked.

“That the child took some breath outside the womb before it died, otherwise the lungs would not have inflated. Therefore, it was not stillborn. Also, the chafing around the neck indicates the high probability of strangulation.” It was the same thing the coroner had told Bartwain at the outset of the investigation.

From the juryman on the far left, the one with the eye patch: “Were the lungs only partly inflated?”

“Yes.”

“So it is possible the child could have died by natural causes, and still have taken in some air as it passed out of the birth canal?”

“Yes, it is possible. But there is the matter of the bruising.”

“Could the bruises have come about by accident?” the same juror persisted. Good point, Bartwain thought. You are a troublemaker, juror-with-the-patch. During trials of this nature, the jurymen could question the witnesses directly, just as the judge, the prosecutor, and the defendant could. Sometimes everyone peppered the witness at once. Bartwain disliked it when that happened.